It's a Smoothie Conspiracy!
by True Blue Fool
Summary: The unthinkable happens when Lassiter turns to Psych for help with a case. Shassie
1. Chapter 1

**A/N** Umm, hi, I'm Blue. *sheepish wave* Some may know me as the author of the unfinished _Art of Potions_ series and are wondering why I'm posting another fic in another fandom. To you I say, for now I'm going where the muses take me. I haven't abandoned _OFRI_, I just need to find the inspiration again. We've grown apart. There's no spark anymore.

To all of you that don't care about that, this is my first fic in the Psych fandom. Yay! It's actually inspired by a dream I had, so I can quite literally say that Shassie is the stuff that dreams are made of *mrowr*

**Title: **It's a Smoothie Conspiracy! (of Pineapple Proportions)  
**Rating:** T for teen  
**Summary:** The unthinkable happens when Lassiter turns to Psych for help with a case.  
**Warnings:** Eventual Shawn/Lassiter slash, some angsting, someone getting hurt, probably some OOCness, some butchering of medical facts. Oh, and some jumping around, timeline-wise

* * *

Lassiter could pick the exact moment when it happened. He could pinpoint the day, the hour- hell, he could probably figure out the minute if he sat down and thought about it long enough.

Lassiter knew when it happened. He also knew the why. The who was unmistakable. It was the what and the how that was really bothering him. It wasn't that he didn't know what was happening. He didn't know what it meant. And he didn't know how it had happened.

Carlton could picture the moment quite clearly in his mind as he had gone over it again and again since it had happened. The flash of the muzzle firing. The breath being knocked out of him as he was knocked to the floor. The pain of Spencer's shoulder digging into his solar plexus. The spreading, sticky warmth across his abdomen.

Carlton dropped his head in his hands and ran his fingers through his hair. For one terrifying moment, he'd thought it was his own blood. Then he discovered it wasn't, and Carlton could swear that his heart really did stop.

"Here, Carlton." His partner's familiar voice shook him out of his reverie. He looked up to see her standing in front of him, holding a cup of coffee out to him. She looked exhausted and the concern was clear on her face. That was only to be expected- she was very close to Spencer, especially considering the will-they-won't-they dance the two had been doing since their first meeting. After this, Carlton assumed it was only a matter of time before they got together. Nothing made people more anxious to form some kind of lasting bond than a near-death experience.

Assuming that Spencer pulled through.

Carlton accepted the cup she was holding. "Any word yet?" The comforting warmth of the coffee in his hands seemed wrong, somehow. Like he should be the one on a cold operating table, not drinking coffee.

O'Hara settled in next to him, sipping from her own cup. "They're still in surgery, but they've promised to let us know the moment anything changes." She grimaced at the coffee, but didn't put it down. "Gus was able to get in touch with Henry and they're on their way."

_Oh god._ Henry and Guster. Carlton didn't know how he could look them in the eye. The two people that Spencer loved most in the world, and now he could die because of someone who professed his hatred of the psychic on a daily basis. But he didn't say any of this to O'Hara. "Good," he said. "They should be here. They're his family."

But O'Hara must have seen through his words because she reached over and placed her hand on top of his own. "You can't blame yourself for this, Carlton."

"He's a civilian, O'Hara. As much as he likes to pretend otherwise, he's not one of us." Carlton could feel his anger building, but he wasn't quite sure who it was directed at: himself, O'Hara, the shooter, or Spencer himself. "I'm the one who should have taken a bullet for him, not the other way around. It's my duty to protect him, and I put him in harm's way. So yeah, I blame myself."

"Shawn knew the risks," O'Hara protested in what she clearly meant to be a soothing tone. Carlton found it grating. "He knew that there might be danger every time he was hired by the department-"

Carlton slammed his coffee down on the side table so hard that the hot liquid sloshed over the side and onto his hand. He barely registered the pain of the burn. "That's just the thing, isn't it?" he growled. "The department didn't hire him. The chief didn't hire him. _I did_."

Carlton couldn't sit anymore and have O'Hara keep giving him sympathetic eyes. He respected his partner; she was a good cop, and he'd grown to like and respect her. He didn't want to say or do anything that he might regret, and he might just if she kept looking at him like that. "I need to stretch my legs," he mumbled and strode out from the waiting area before she could say anything further.

He didn't go far beyond the waiting area. The hallway outside was quiet and nearly deserted, which wasn't really surprising considering the ungodly hour that they were there. A hospital never closed, but visiting hours were long over, and the staff consisted of only the graveyard shift. He leaned against the wall with a small sigh. Lassiter liked the quiet and the solitude, although he had to admit, that he'd had a little too much of both since he and Victoria separated. Spencer, with his annoying habit of running his mouth off with anything that happened to be in that pea-sized brain of his, was occasionally a refreshing change. Not all the time, but when Carlton found his apartment too big and too quiet, he didn't mind Spencer's fake-psychic crap too much. He closed his eyes. He would give almost anything for Spencer to burst into this quiet hallway with one of his loud, disruptive, oddly touchy "visions" right now.

"Juliet was right, you know. You can't blame yourself."

Carlton opened his eyes to see Guster standing in front of him, sipping a smoothie. Of all the things he expected from the quieter, slightly more mature half of the Psych duo, this wasn't really one of them. "Guster... Did you stop for snacks?"

"You know that's right." The man took a loud slurp. "Don't you look at me like that, Lassiter. I got one for Shawn, too. A pineapple one. Someone really needs to introduce that man to some new flavors."

Carlton wasn't sure he'd heard correctly. No scratch that; he was certain that he _couldn't _have heard correctly. There was denial and then there was bringing a smoothie to a man currently in surgery and likely to be for the next few hours. It was worse than behavior he would have expected from Spencer. "Guster..." he trailed off. What could he say? _You do realize that your friend is knocking on death's door right now all because of me?_

"You can stop looking at me like that, Detective. I know Shawn's not going to be able to drink it, but we had a two for one coupon that expires today, and I would never hear the end of it if I let it go to waste." He held out a paper bag."You might as well have it. Mr Spencer didn't want it, and Juliet's just going to complain that it will make her fat, and no one wants to hear that."

Almost in spite of himself, Carlton accepted the bag. He took out the plastic cup and sipped from the straw, the bright flavor that burst onto his tongue was one that he would associate with the psychic for the rest of his life. The cold was a pleasant jolt, doing more to wake him up than the cup of bad hospital coffee.

Guster was watching him closely. "There's one thing that you learn when you've known Shawn as long as I have: he'll do whatever he likes no matter what you do. He would have found a way to weasel in on this case whether you hired us or not. At least this way we'll get paid. You _are _going to pay us, right?"

Carlton felt some indignation at that statement- his best friend could be dying right now, and he was worried about _money?_- but one look at Guster's face told Carlton that he really couldn't care less about the fee. He was trying to make Carlton feel better. Shouldn't it be the other way around? Did he really look that bad? After all, he wasn't the one with a friend in surgery. "No worries, Guster. I always make good on my promises."

"Good. One less thing for me to worry about."

The two men stood in companionable silence for a few moments, the occasional slurp the only sound they were making.

"It was in his own best interest, you know," Guster said finally. "If you got shot, we'd all be dead. If he got shot, we all had the best possible chance of getting out of there alive. Even him. I know you think he's an idiot, but I guarantee you that's what he was thinking right before he pushed you out of the way. It was the only possible outcome where the three of us got out of there alive." He took another long sip of his smoothie. "I know what you're going to say Lassiter, and you're wrong. Shawn's not going to die. He can't until he's yelled at you for drinking his smoothie."

Carlton watched bemused as Guster sauntered back into the waiting area. _I guess we all have our rituals,_ he thought, and then he looked at the smoothie in his hand. It really would piss Spencer off to find out that Calton had finished the smoothie Guster had bought for him. Spencer would never miss the chance to yell at someone for taking his food. And he was stubborn enough to fight his way back from death's door just for that purpose.

The smoothie suddenly tasted twice as good and Carlton felt the need to gulp it down.

"Dammit," he muttered suddenly, feeling pain shoot behind his eyeball. "Brain freeze." Spencer could even manage to give him a headache while unconscious. The thought inexplicably made him smile.

* * *

"Lassie!" Spencer was far too cheerful for someone who had very nearly died less than 24 hours ago. Carlton had expected the psychic to be groggy and unaware of his surroundings, or maybe even in obvious pain. He didn't expect to see Spencer sitting up, propped up by an obscene number of pillows that he must have charmed off of the nurses, looking pale and tired and a little bit drawn, but smiling brightly. "Look Gus, it's Lassie! Lassie came to see me."

"Yes," Guster said, shooting Carlton a knowing look. "Despite the fact that the nurses said you could only have one visitor at a time, and that only family was allowed to see you."

It was true. However, hospital staff had been known to make exceptions for police officers looking to question victims of gunshot wounds. Especially charming young victims that they had spent half the night trying to keep alive. Carlton had just left off the fact that, except for the customary investigation that happened to every officer that discharged their weapon, Shawn's case was closed. And even if Carlton _hadn't_ done everything by the book, he would have absolutely nothing to fear from the investigation. Spencer might be a pain in the ass, but he was the SBPD's pain in the ass, and they took care of their own. "You're here, Guster," Carlton replied evenly. Guster shrugged his response.

"Gus's my brother," Spencer piped up. "My bro. My man-bro. My black man bro. My dome. My shiny, shiny dome." He reached out to pet Guster's aforementioned dome, but Guster batted his hand away.

"Shawn's on some pretty potent pain medication," Guster explained, after a brief, silent scuffle between the two. Spencer was pouting at not being allowed to stroke "his shiny."

"I can see that."

"It's all muddy. Murky," Spencer said suddenly, and Carlton could see a brief moment of seriousness in the psychic's eyes. He looked truly out of his element for the first time since Carlton had first met him. "I can't think straight. I-" But then the mischief was back. "The spirits are having trouble getting through the fog. But they did tell me one thing," he raised his fingers to his temple in an all-too familiar gesture, save for the pain that crossed his face, and the wince he couldn't quite hide. "_You_, Lassie," he pointed an imperious finger, "have committed a heinous crime. A crime so vile, so outrageous that they could do nothing but scream it into the night!" Spencer fixed his eyes on Carlton, and his gaze was unexpectedly intense considering his condition. "You, Head Detective Carlton Lassiter, _you drank my smoothie_."

Carlton had to fight down the smile that was threatening to appear on his lips to adopt his usual look of disdain when confronted with one of Spencer's "visions." "The spirits told you that, did they?" he asked, letting disbelief color his tone. "Not someone a little more solid and, oh I don't know, sitting right next to you?"

"Yes, it was the spirits. Because they also told me that you expect me to be appeased with strawberry kiwi." He held out his hands expectantly.

Okay, that was rather more impressive. Carlton surrendered the bag he was holding. "They didn't have pineapple," he explained, feeling a little defensive. How was he to know that the owner of the smoothie place by his apartment was allergic to pineapple? Wasn't pineapple a standard flavor for smoothies? Spencer certainly made it seem that way.

"Under normal circumstances, strawberry kiwi would be a perfectly acceptable substitution, but it will not make up for the smoothie you so viciously stole from me when I was in no shape to defend it." Spencer stuck a straw in the smoothie but made no move to drink it. "You are only half forgiven, Lassipants." His eyelids fluttered shut for a moment, and he opened them again with an effort that was clear to Carlton. "The spirits have stopped screaming."

Spencer was fading fast. He should have known that this miraculous recovery was just a show, just like everything else Spencer did. "I should get going. Paperwork."

Spencer's sleepy voice followed him out. "I expect pineapple next time, Lassie."

* * *

"Why can't you give that poor man a break?" Gus demanded after Lassiter had gone. "You should have seen him, Shawn. Lassiter blamed himself for what happened. He was wreck."

"Gus don't be..." Shawn closed his eyes. He couldn't think of what Gus was being. He had to concentrate hard to get past the fog of the pain killers. That much he had been telling the truth about. "Don't be the door knockers from the Labyrinth." Classic Henson never let you down. "Lassie doesn't want to be forgiven. Why else would he have not brought the one flavor he could be sure that I liked?"

"They didn't have pineapple. Do you think he lied about that?"

"No, Lassie's a lot of things, but never a liar." Shawn was having trouble focusing on Gus' almost inappropriately shiny head. "It's true that the smoothie place by Lassie's apartment doesn't carry pineapple, but this is Southern California; we have smoothie joints like Seattle has Starbucks. There's one on every corner."

Gus seemed to chew on that thought for a moment. "But why wouldn't Lassiter want to be forgiven? It's just a smoothie."

There were a bunch of goblins behind Gus performing "Dance Magic Dance." Shawn tried not to be distracted by them, despite the fact that he'd always wanted to squeeze a Muppet to see what it would feel like. "Because I won't blame him for putting my life at risk, and he hasn't forgiven himself about that. He wants me to be mad at him, even if it's just about a smoothie."

"But Shawn-"

"_Gus._" Shawn interrupted firmly. "I don't want to go to the Bog of Eternal Stench."

Gus sighed and shook his head. "Annnd, we're done. Get some rest, Shawn. I'll be back tomorrow."

"Ponies," Shawn agreed sleepily.

Gus grabbed the smoothie before he left. "No sense in it going to waste," he muttered to himself, sparing a cautionary glance in Shawn's direction. The fact that Shawn had started snoring softly and was drooling a little bit seemed to satisfy him, and he sauntered out of the room drinking deeply from the cup. Strawberry kiwi just so happened to be one of_ his_ favorites.

* * *

**A/N** I just want to point out that each new scene will reprent a hop forward in time. Because this is the first chapter, it's the most cohesive in terms of the timeline, but I'm writing this story as if it were just little snapshots of their lives. Some scenes will only be a few minutes in the future, like the above. Some a few hours, a few days, maybe even a few weeks or months.

And I'm trying to be as vague as possible with anything medical so I don't screw it up too badly. ^_^


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**So, good thing about having a job that drives me crazy: I can usually sneak in some writing time when there's a lull in phones and visitors and badges. Bad thing: I have a job that drives me crazy. But having time to write outways the driving me crazy. Most of the time.

* * *

When Shawn was discharged, he expected there to be balloons and flowers, and Gus' tears. Maybe even Jules', too although she'd probably hold them back longer. He expected cake, and for Chief Vick to give him a medal- probably not a _real_ medal, but something appropriately shiny that he could pin to his lapel (after he asked Gus whether or not he was wearing a lapel; he'd never been quite sure what it was)- and for his dad to get all gruff the way he did when he was proud of something Shawn had done but couldn't say so without losing his tough-guy demeanor.

Shawn had expected all of those things, and maybe more, maybe even a pony. But he hadn't expected what he found. "Lassie! How'd you get roped into picking me up?" Shawn thought he would be disappointed that it wasn't someone who would make more of a fuss over him, but he found that he didn't really mind. Besides, he'd get all the excitement soon enough; if Lassiter was the one picking him up, then that meant everyone else was busy getting his surprise party ready. Complete with tears, balloons, cake, and maybe even a pony. Lassiter was just the calm before the storm, as it were. And Shawn really didn't mind that calm. It gave him a chance to brace himself for the storm that was coming.

"I owed you something," Lassiter replied, and Shawn noticed that he looked a little uncomfortable, his hands picking restlessly at the white paper bag he was holding. Lassie was a lot of things- a good cop, a gun enthusiast, a civil war buff- but shy had never been one of those things, especially not around Shawn. They may have butt heads from their first meeting, but that only meant that there had been no getting-to-know-you awkwardness, no uncomfortable silences that needed to be filled, no shifting of weight from foot to foot, eyes never quite settling on one thing, as Lassie was doing right now. Theirs had always been a comfortable sort of animosity.

"I had better find two smoothies in that bag, Lassie," Shawn said firmly.

That had gotten Lassiter's attention. "Why in the name of sweet mercy would I have gotten you two smoothies, Spencer?" His eyes had stopped bouncing around and finally rested firmly on Shawn. He'd settled his weight over both feet and looked to all the world, or at least to Shawn, like a completely different man. Shawn had to hide his smile; Lassie probably wasn't even aware of it, but he was never more comfortable that when Shawn was pissing him off.

"Gus brought me a smoothie that you stole. Then you brought me a smoothie that Gus stole. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, break your mother's heart." Shawn frowned. "Wait, that doesn't sound right..."

Lassiter pinched the bridge of his nose. "I have no control over Guster's actions. Why am I blamed for what he did?"

"Oh come on, you can't tell me this doesn't sound suspicious. You two are in cahoots I say! It's a conspiracy. A smoothie conspiracy of pineapple proportions."

Lassiter raised a single eyebrow, an expression no doubt painstakingly copied from Mr. Spock in his youth. "Pineapple proportions?"

Shawn licked his lips. The pain meds made his mouth so dry. "Epic. I meant epic. My head's still a bit murky."

Something passed across Lassiter's face, too fast for Shawn to read in his current state. "I never would have guessed. It sounds like something you'd make up."

"I've heard it both ways," Shawn amended.

"That's more like it." Lassiter handed him the bag. "Here, you sound hoarse."

"Speaking of horses, is it true you bought me a pony for the surprise party Gus and Jules are throwing for me?"

There was a ghost of a smile floating around the detective's mouth. "I told O'Hara you wouldn't be surprised. Do me a favor and at least act like it, or she'll just blame me."

"Of course, Lassie. But don't think this means you're forgiven."

"Perish the thought."

* * *

The dream had hit him again tonight. Full of smoke and blood and screams and the smell of gunpowder, just like always. Carlton knew that it was no use trying to go back to sleep. It wasn't that Carlton had never shot anyone before, or had been in that kind of danger. And it wasn't that he'd never seen someone shot in front of him. The department mandated shrink (not Spencer's mother; she was tending to her offspring) had thought it was because of his personal relationship with Spencer. Carlton had thought that man was a crackpot, but here, in the middle of the night, his heart racing from the remembered trauma, he could concede that the therapist may have had a point.

Carlton flipped on the TV. There was normally an episode of Law & Order on at this time of the night, in the middle of all the infomercials and evangelicals.

His cell phone rang just as he was about to change the channel from something about a pet brush. Good, maybe he had a case and he wouldn't have to explain the dark circles under his eyes to O'Hara.

But it wasn't the department calling him. "Spencer? You better have a very good reason for calling me at this time of night."

"Come now, Lassiface. We both know you weren't sleeping."

Carlton never bought into that whole psychic mumbo-jumbo that had the rest of the department fooled, but even he had to admit that there were times that Spencer made a pretty good case for it. "And just what makes you say that?"

"For starters, you didn't curse me out when you picked up, as we both know you would not hesitate to do if I had _actually_ woken you at 2 in the morning. Secondly, Jules said that she didn't think you'd been sleeping lately, so there was a fair chance that I would catch you awake."

Carlton waited a moment, but Spencer didn't continue. "And?"

"And what?"

"I know there's a third thing, Spencer. You always have a third thing." Even when it had absolutely nothing to do with the first two.

Spencer gave a small little laugh that shocked Carlton. It was a hollow sound. "Maybe you should be the psychic now, Lassie, you ever think of that? Maybe I'm rubbing off on you. I could teach you. Buy you a crystal ball with training wheels or something."

"Spencer…"

"And thirdly, I can see your lights are on."

"The hell, Spencer?" Carlton ran to the window. "Tell me you did not drive your motorcycle here." It only took a moment of searching before he spotted the psychic. The street light glinting off of the metal of his wheelchair helped. Spencer waved at him.

"Calm down Lassie. As you can see, my motorcycle doesn't really have the storage capacity for my chrome steed here."

"So how the hell did you get here? Sweet justice, Spencer, don't tell me you wheeled yourself here." Carlton could just imagine the big juicy target he would have been- a man in a wheelchair, all alone in the small hours of the morning.

"Now I wish I had thought of that. It would have saved me money and given you a heart attack all at the same time. No, I went the responsible route and called a cab."

"Why did you…" Carlton stopped. Spencer was still a big juicy target, just sitting in front of his building. Even more so while talking on his luridly green iPhone. "Hold on, I'm coming down to get you."

Spencer shot him a thumbs' up as Carlton hung up his phone.

"What the hell were you thinking, Spencer?" Carlton demanded as he ran out. "Why would you have a taxi drop you off here at 2 in the morning? What would you have done if I hadn't been up? Or if I wasn't home?"

"Chillax, Lassiroo. I only had him drop me off when I saw your light on."

In typical Spencer fashion, that didn't explain anything. "Would you get inside, you irritating little fraud?"

Spencer gave him a little salute before propelling himself forward. Carlton felt a small twinge of guilt; should he have offered to push Spencer inside? And while they could take the elevator up, Carlton had no idea if the building was wheelchair-friendly. Were the hallways wide enough? Were the doorways? And given Spencer's notoriously small bladder, would he be able to use Carlton's bathroom?

And most importantly, what was he doing here at 2 in the morning?

They didn't talk on the ride up, only when they had arrived in Lassiter's living room. Carlton sat in one of the armchairs across from where Spencer had parked his wheelchair, and crossed his arms. "All right. Talk."

"Certainly," Spencer replied brightly. "I can talk the night away. Any specific topics you'd like to request?"

"Yes. How about what it is you're doing here."

"Why Lassie, don't you remember?" Spencer replied with a flutter of his eyelashes. "You invited me up here."

"You know what I mean, Spencer. What were you doing outside my building at 2 in the morning?"

"What were you doing awake at two in the morning?" Spencer countered.

Lack of sleep was ruining Spencer's game. Carlton didn't even bat an eyelash. "It's not uncommon for officers of the law to have insomnia."

"Especially not after a traumatic event." Spencer was tapping his fingers rapidly against his knee. "Such as in the event of a shooting."

"I wasn't the one who got shot."

"No." Spencer closed his eyes, and Carlton could swear something like relief passed over his face. "I dream that you did, though. Every night. I dream that I didn't get there in time and that bullet went straight through your heart."

Carlton could see the shadows under Spencer's eyes. Shadows that matched the ones under his own. This seemed to have really rattled the psychic. "He couldn't have been aiming at my heart or the shot would have gone over your head," Carlton said, attempting humor.

Spencer gave a brief, pained smile. "Lording your freakish height over me. Nice one."

"It's not freakish. It's perfectly common for men to be my height."

"Keep telling yourself that, Lassie."

Carlton realized that Spencer hadn't answered the question. But that was all right; Carlton could guess what the answer was. "Why don't I put on a pot of coffee?"

"Sweet. There's a Criminal Intent marathon on that we can watch."

* * *

Lassie had that permanently surprised look on his face the whole time they were in the car. It was like he thought Shawn had hoodwinked him, but that was wrong. There had been no winking of hoods or any other hanky-panky of the sort. Lassie had, in fact, _volunteered_ for it. Shawn had just, very casually, mentioned that he needed someone to come with him to physical therapy. It wasn't even a lie: Gus had come with him a few times, but clearly wasn't comfortable with it. Henry would just make the whole thing more difficult, and Shawn wasn't comfortable with Jules coming. Outside of them, there was really no one else Shawn was willing to have while he was that vulnerable, except for Lassie.

He wouldn't have anyone there, except his therapist said having a support system would help him heal faster. And she really wouldn't shut up about it; no matter how many times Shawn tried to change the topic. It made him doubt his heretofore almost superhuman powers of flirtation. Did the chrome steed really limit his charm?

Whatever. Shawn had dropped the hint, and Lassie had pounced on it, like an incredibly tall, gun-toting, Civil War buff cat. And here they were, in the car, on the way to his physical therapy session, and Lassie had that deer-in headlights look plastered all over his face.

_Awkward silence is awkward_. Shawn reached over to turn on the radio. Except what came on wasn't music, but a man's voice droning on about things Shawn didn't find all that interesting.

"Lassie, are you listening to a book on tape?"

"Technically, it's on a CD."

If it had been Gus he was talking to, Shawn might have ribbed him for the poor joke, but he wasn't completely sure if Lassie was joking or not. "I thought only old people listened to books on tape."

Lassie shot him a sideways glance. "I am older than you, Spencer."

"Yeah, but you're not _old_ old. Not loogie hawking, pants hiked up to your chest, spectacle wearing, whipper-snapper talking _old_. Not like my dad."

The corners of Lassie's mouth turned up in a not-quite smile. "Henry doesn't do any of those things."

"But he _could_. He's at that age. It's a very difficult age. He's started rebelling. I'm thinking military school." Shawn started fiddling with the buttons, trying to figure out how to get the radio on, but just ended up making the man's voice louder.

"_With a total of 23,000 casualties on both sides, it was the bloodiest single day of the Civil War…"_ (1)

Lassie reached over and batted Shawn's hand out of the way. "How you survived to adulthood, I'll never know," he muttered, not quite under his breath, pressing a single button to turn the radio on, and turning the volume down to low.

"I had Gus. Gus was always like a mini adult. Growing up was just getting taller for him."

"It seems that's all that you did as well."

"Lassie, I'm hurt that you would think that." Shawn clasped his hands over his heart. "It hurts me _right here_."

"I think you'll survive, Spencer," Lassiter responded, but he was smiling in a way that said he was trying to hide it, but just couldn't quite.

_I win_. Shawn thought with some satisfaction.

Shawn's therapist was very happy to see Lassie. Even more so when she learned he had been at the scene when Shawn had gotten shot. By some sort of mute agreement, neither of them told her what exactly had happened. She just assumed that Shawn had been the target. Shawn could understand why Lassie didn't want her to know- to shield his wounded cop pride about not being able to protect a civilian- but Shawn didn't know what was causing his own reluctance. Generally anything that annoyed or made Lassie uncomfortable fell on to his must-do list. Except…

Except Shawn kept seeing that image from his nightmares. That bullet going straight into Lassiter's heart. Those dead, blue eyes looking up at him accusingly saying, "You're the psychic. Why didn't you see this coming?"

_But I'm not_, Shawn wanted to say. _I'm not really psychic._

But before he could say a word, Gus got shot, and then the gun turned unerringly towards Shawn, and the barrel was so wide and long and black that it looked like a tunnel that only ended in pain and death. And Shawn would stare into that gaping maw with the knowledge that the only person that could save him was already dead.

So Shawn kept his mouth shut and let his therapist believe what she wanted to believe. And maybe Lassie would start to believe that he had actually saved Shawn's life. Shawn had gotten hurt in the process, but Lassie had been there to make it all better. Lassie was still there, making it all better, keeping Shawn and Gus safe, just like he always had. Just like he always would.

"This place is pretty nice," Shawn commented genially as they were leaving. Lassie was pushing the chrome steed. Shawn didn't really mind; he was more tired than he cared to admit. "Except it has no juice bar. What kind of gym doesn't have a juice bar?"

"The kind that's not actually a gym."

"How is this not a gym?" Shawn demanded. "They have weights and medicine balls and stationary bikes and personal trainers…"

"Physical therapists," Lassie corrected mildly.

"I've heard it both ways." Shawn waved his hand dismissively. "But it doesn't have a juice bar. How does that make any sense?"

"Most people going to therapy have things other than smoothies on their mind, Spencer."

"Yes, but the key to any new workout regime is rewarding yourself for doing well. I did well; therefore I deserve a smoothie. But there are no smoothies to be had." Shawn crossed his arms over his chest. "I think this is all part of your smoothie conspiracy."

"And exactly how far does this conspiracy reach?"

Shawn couldn't believe that Lassie was humoring him. "Obviously further than I had originally thought. This might go all the way to the top. All the way to," Shawn let his voice drop to a conspiratorial whisper, "_Jamba Juice_."

"Spencer." Lassiter spoke slowly, as if to a small child. "You are ridiculous."

"Admit it Lassie, you love it. Now what I can't figure out is how they roped _you_ into all of this. Gus screams like a little girl at a hangnail, but you're tougher than that. And squeaky clean, so I'm not buying blackmail. How'd they break you?"

Lassie didn't answer. So Shawn focused his attention on something else. "Hey, this isn't the way to the car! Where are you taking me? To your evil Jamba Juice overlords?"

"Something like that," Lassiter said. "Since someone decided that he deserved a smoothie."

Shawn was speechless, a state of being that he didn't often find himself in. Lassie was taking him out for a smoothie? "Brainwashing," Shawn said when he was finally able to find his voice again. "Definitely brainwashing."

"What are you babbling about now, Spencer?"

"How Jamba Juice brainwashed you into becoming a pawn for their smoothie conspiracy."

Lassie sighed, the sigh that Shawn liked to believe that only he could elicit. The extra-special, super-exasperated, I'm-this-close-to-strangling-you, Head Detective Carlton Lassiter deluxe sigh. "Do you want the smoothie or not?"

Shawn pretended to think about it for a moment. "Yes. But if this is some sort of plot to rope me in to your conspiracy…"

"Then I've already won."

* * *

(1) This is a quote from pbs (dot) org that I got when I Googled "Civil War Facts." I wanted Lassie to be listening to a Civil War book, and I'm not much of a history buff. So I googled.

**A/N** This will be pretty slow going. Sorry to anyone who wanted juicy action up front. 'S not what I do.

Hahaha. Snot.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N** Fair warning, I've been awake since 3:30 this morning. I was having this really bizarre dream and there was a baby cheetah in it, and the baby cheetah attacked my ear and I woke up. So the part from Shawn's POV is all written with far too little sleep. Which, actually, is easier to write on too little sleep. I know I should have waited and posted this tomorrow when I can edit with a well-rested eye, but I've got RL suckiness going on tomorrow and the last thing I'm going to wanna do is edit. I could use a little review love to help out? Not extorting reviews, just asking.

* * *

Carlton stared at the evidence in front of him. The answer was in there _somewhere_. Why couldn't he see it?

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn't see it. He needed a fresh perspective, a new set of eyes, an opinion he could trust. He hated to say it, but he needed Psych in on this one. He and O'Hara had been working on it for too long; they were missing _something_ and Carlton had a feeling that it was something right in front of his nose.

He stood. The station was far too quiet at this time of the night, and Carlton had sent O'Hara home some hours ago with a promise that he'd leave soon afterwards, a promise the both of them knew that he'd break. He found the quiet suddenly stifling, so he gathered up the relevant files and headed out to the one place where he knew that quiet was the last thing that he'd get.

The lights were on in the Psych office. Carlton let his car idle outside for a few moments. He could see that the TV was on, but he didn't see Guster's car in the parking lot. Spencer had pretty much moved into the office citing that it had more room for him to maneuver on his crutches, and he never cooked, so why did he need a real kitchen anyway? Carlton didn't know why he was surprised to see that Spencer was awake. The nightmares of a shooting victim were never so easily shaken.

Carlton continued to sit in his car, engine running, and he stared at the lit-up window. This whole situation had such a terrible sense of déjà vu, that he couldn't bring himself to turn the key and open the door. This was how Spencer had almost died; Carlton, at his wit's end, had turned to the fake psychic for help. He'd arrived at the office in the middle of the night, when Spencer had been the only one there. That time, Carlton had been frustrated, his hands tied by his position as an officer of the law. He'd gone to Spencer specifically because as a civilian, he could go places and talk to people that Carlton couldn't.

_This time is different_, Carlton told himself. _I don't need Spencer in the field. I don't need him in harm's way. I just need him to look at some files._

But despite what Carlton tried to tell himself, he just pulled out of the parking lot and headed home. It was against the law to idle more than three minutes, after all.

* * *

"Carlton, Shawn just had a vision." O'Hara's was talking quickly the way she did when they were on to something. "He saw… well he said that he saw a Gypsy singing Joni Mitchell's "Big Yellow Taxi"… but that got me thinking about a cab driver."

Carlton hated being on the phone while driving, but sometimes it was unavoidable. "We checked the records of local cab companies, O'Hara. There was no record of our vic."

"But what if it was a _gypsy_ cab? Like in Shawn's vision?"

Carlton felt an odd clenching in his stomach. "It's a thin enough lead. Won't be easy to track down."

"But it's _something_, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it's something. I'll meet you back at the station."

Carlton hung up with O'Hara and dialed a second number. "Heyyy, Lassie! What's shakin' bacon? Did Jules call you?"

"Yes she did." Carlton didn't know why he suddenly felt so angry. "I sent O'Hara home to get some rest, Spencer. She's gotten little enough in the past few days."

"Hey, you could have had it straight from the horse's mouth, but you just sat in your car, listened to some grooves, and left without even saying hello."

So Spencer had known he was there. "You could have come outside and said something," Carlton snapped without thinking.

Spencer laughed. "That's what I love about you, Lassie. You don't cut anyone any slack. You were gone well before I could get my gimpy self out there."

Oh. Oh god. "Jesus, Spencer, I'm sorry."

"Oh, don't ruin it now, Lassie. You forgot didn't you? Tell me you forgot."

Yes, he had. He had no idea how, but for a moment, Carlton had completely forgotten that Shawn Spencer was anything other than his usual annoying self. "Spencer…"

"No one else can forget. It's like all they think about. I can't get away from anyone without them asking how I'm getting along, and how's physical therapy been going, and did the doctor's say when I'll be able to walk on my own? But not you, Lassipants, because you forgot."

"When you annoy me, Spencer, it tends to distract me. That's the definition of annoyance."

"No, the definition of annoyance is something that annoys. The definition of _annoy_ is-"

"Are you on dictionary dot com right now?"

There was a moment of silence that answered Carlton's question for him. "I think I'll buy you that crystal ball for your birthday."

"It's called deduction, Spencer. The rest of us don't feel the need to hide it behind theatrics." Besides, Carlton was sure that Spencer's idea of a crystal ball would translate into a snowglobe of some description. He gave a small shudder. "I'm a well-trained detective that knows you far better than I wish to."

"So in other words: Elementary, my dear Lassie? Look at you getting your Sherlock on. Benedict Cumberbatch even has your eyes."

"I'm not even going to pretend to know what you're babbling about."

"Your loss, Lassie. Your loss. Don't forget my smoothie the next time you swing by."

"Spencer, I bought you a smoothie. The right flavor and everything."

"That wasn't a make-up smoothie. That was a smoothie to broil me into your conspiracy."

"I think you mean _embroil_," Carlton corrected, but he couldn't shake the image of Spencer roasting on a man-sized grill.

"I've heard it both ways."

"Spencer, broiling is something you do- you know what? I'm not even going to bother." Arguing with Spencer was like running into a brick wall. Repeatedly.

"Catcha later, Lassie. Call me when you catch the bad boy. I'll bake cookies."

As Carlton hung up the phone, he couldn't help but wonder how Spencer was planning on baking him cookies with no oven. As far as he knew, Guster had gotten rid of the Easy-Bake Oven after the pineapple upside-down cake incident.

Then he gave himself a little shake. Why was he worried about cookies when he had a murderer to catch?

* * *

Shawn hated to say it, but he'd been a little hurt when Lassie didn't come into the office. He thought they'd bonded over Law & Order and smoothies and going to the gym with no juice bar. His mom would say that they'd bonded over shared trauma. Whatever, bonding had happened. There had been bondage.

Err, not _bondage_-bondage. But turning the verb _bond_ into a noun by adding –age. The way Buffy did. _That_ kind of bondage.

Okay, he _really_ needed to stop thinking about bondage, because now he had entirely inappropriate images in his head of Lassie in leather.

Although the man could probably pull off a pair of leather pants rather well. With an open button-down. And wearing his gun holster. But holding the gun. Standing aloof in front of a sunset, with some tall, leggy blonde hanging off of him. He could totally be on the cover of a cop romance novel, the kind that Jules liked to read but always pretended that she didn't.

… He really needed to start going easy on those pain pills.

Shawn had always considered himself to be straight. Definitely and totally and completely straight. As an arrow. Well, maybe not as an arrow. Maybe more like a fork. Which was totally straight until you came to the stabby, pointy bits. Gus said those were called times or something. Anyway, that's what Shawn was. Straight as a fork- bent at the right times.

Because there had been that college kid in San Francisco. And that blackjack dealer in Vegas.

Okay, so maybe Shawn was just _fairly_ straight. A one on the Kinsey scale. Able to consider other men as attractive. And sure, he'd always _objectively_ been able to see Lassie as an attractive man. But there was a major difference between that and imagining the man wearing leather pants. And there was a major difference between imagining the man in leather pants, and imagining wearing leather pants on the cover of a romance novel. And thinking that cover would be smokin'.

He needed to get out more, Shawn decided, because the only people he'd really seen lately had been his parents and Gus and Lassie. Out of all of them, Lassie was the only one Shawn could even think about in that way because his parents- _ewwww_. And Gus was his best man friend, never more. Ever. Even if they were the last two people on the planet. Even if Shawn was going through Pon-Farr and would die if they didn't and Gus was the only suitable mate in the _entire_ universe. (Though Shawn considered that he might be willing to sacrifice himself if the situation was reversed, if only to save Gus' life. He was sure that he'd be thoroughly traumatized, and Gus would owe him more than he could ever repay. And then some.)

There was his personal trainer (or physical therapist as Lassie would always correct him) but she had already proven immune to his charms and therefore was unsuitable as a between-the-sheets kind of friend. There were the other people at the gym (physical therapy), but that was just depressing. And what was really depressing was that that was the only place Shawn was going these days. No wonder he was hung up on Lassie in leather. He was becoming a recluse, a shut-in, a hermit. He needed to meet the people, to press the flesh, to tan. In the morning he'd go…

… Nowhere. He couldn't. He couldn't ride his motorcycle, not the way he was now. He couldn't ask Gus to drive him, because he _would_ and Shawn knew that since Psych was out of commission as long as he was, it wasn't fair of him to ask Gus to leave work. He couldn't walk anywhere, because Shawn _hated_ the looks that he got around here. They all knew him and they all looked at him with that pity in their eyes, and always tried to help him whether he needed it or not.

Lassie could drive him somewhere, but if Lassie had come to Psych, it meant that he was having a lot of trouble with the case he was working on, and wouldn't goof off until it was solved. Shawn wished he had come in, because Shawn had had an epiphany and had just been about to call him (of course he'd been following the case; he was a hermit now. He had nothing better to do.)

Shawn considered calling Lassie and making him come back, but it hurt that he hadn't even turned the car off. So instead, Shawn called Jules.

"Jules! Yes I know what time it is. No I… I assumed having a pillow fight with a coed in a slinky negligee, but…Yes, actually, I _do _think I'm funny, but that isn't the point… _Jules_. I had a vision! Of a woman. She's a thief, no she's a tramp, no she's Cher!... No, Cher isn't the killer, Jules, that would just be stupid… And she's singing- something. I can't quite- it's something about a parking lot. But where? In paradise? Why would someone put a parking lot in paradise?... _Yes_. You're looking for a gypsy cab!"

Shawn hung up with a smile. Soon Lassie would be free to drive him somewhere so he could stop thinking about Lassie. Yes, Shawn knew what that sounded like. But desperate times called for Lassie to save him. Or something like that.

* * *

**A/N** Okay, so at least we're veering in a Shassie direction, right? And Shawn is disturbingly easy to write on too little sleep. I was also never very adept at mysteries, so any crime-solving will _also_ be kept fairly vague.

Any other BBC Sherlock fans out there? Yeah, I totes knew it was the cabbie from the beginning. Still love it though. I _cried_ at the last episode. Full out _sobbed_. And I knew how it would end, too.


End file.
